Horatio's Harem
by Neteret
Summary: A series of short stories about the women in Horatio Caine's life. He's charmed, he's teased, he's allowed to relieve his frustrations, he's disappointed, and more. I hope you enjoy.
1. Janet

The death of Janet Medrano, the State's Attorney who was killed by escaped prisoner, Hank Kerner, for her part in his prosecution, devastated more than her parents and her dear friends like Calleigh Duquesne. Unknown to anyone was the loss felt by Horatio Caine. When he'd first heard about it, he was in the middle of a crime scene investigating Emma Kaye's kidnapping and could do nothing abouthis shock, anger or sadness. As Calleigh expressed her grief and anger at the loss over the phone, Horatio could only expresshis sympathy for her. When she'd ended the call, he'd handed the phone back to Eric, and the day had continued.

At work, it was all about the job, solving the mystery, so, as usual, he locked his personal feelings in a place so far away, sometimes even he had a hard time gaining access. Keeping his feelings, his own emotions, from crashing in, taking over, drowning him entirely, was the struggle he dealt with every day; it's what had gotten him into so much trouble as a teenager dealing with his father's abuse, why he wouldn't risk dealing with them on the job.

The catastrophe wasn't just losing a tender lover, a beautiful woman that delighted every sense, but losing the relationship that had been filling the need he'd had for a long time, the yearning for peace and trust, and along with it, a sense of contentment. She had seemed to be the perfect match for him and he'd been very hopeful, so very hopeful.

What, about her, wasn't pleasing? That voice, to begin with; easy to compare to warm chocolate sauce because of her skin color, but then he'd think how, within the warm contralto, he heard highlights of tone that brought to mind children giggling on a playground, waterfalls deep in a rain forest, and even the smell of bread, baking in an oven, while women talked at the kitchen table. He liked thinking about her voice as he drove to the field, recreating it in his mind, analyzing the qualities, which gave him a feeling of serenity. Then, arriving at a scene, as he opened the door to the Hummer, he'd put the thoughts of her voice safely, far away and feel the lock click shut as the car door closed and he'd be free to be with the puzzle of a new crime.

No one but her parents had known of their relationship yet, though Janet was certain some peoplesuspected something. They'd giggled in bed over what others would think of Janet's youth, Horatio's maturity and especially the color difference. They'd had to laugh about it because they sure weren't going to let it stop them.

She said she adored him because of his surprising tenderness and the way he made her feel whenever she felt his eyes on her, and they both thought they were a wonderful physical match, being nearly the same height and contrastingly complimentary in each other's color tones. They found one another endlessly fascinating not only in conversation but physically. Though she was not quite as experienced romantically as he, she more than made up for it in her desire to get to 'know' him from head to toe. It got so he was not surprised, when he'd wake from a post-lovemaking doze, to find her just staring at some part of his anatomy, even his fingers. She'd once declared he had twenty-three hairs on the first knuckle of the middle finger of his left hand. A woman who could freely expound on the laws of Florida by code and section had counted the hairs on his knuckle!

Of course, early in the relationship,he had tested her, verified the trust he wanted to feel for her. He'd told her harmless bits about cases that would be passing into her hands, waited to see if they came up in her documents, or was used in any way, whether she questioned him later on matters based purely on his spoken word, and was gratified to find any references she ever made came from documented evidence from the lab. It was as if, she too had a place where she locked away information which was based on personal sources.

And then besides that trust, he discovered thathe could have absolute confidence in her,whichcamefrom her unfailing ability to live up to anything she agreed to and to never agree to anything she would not, could not live up to.

The clincher came when he realized that she'd tested him as well, not only on whether he valued her feelings but to see if he would trade on her relationship with childhood friend, Calleigh, or any other of their mutual acquaintances, in any way. In short, she hadn't just fallen for him because he was the Mighty Horatio Caine, well known CSI Hero, as many women had done, not just because he'd treated her with respect and sweetness but also because he'd proven himself.

Only after their fourth date did she confess that she had had mixed feelings about seeing him in the first place, wouldn't have accepted if he had approached her and asked her out, say, at a party; his age, his relationship with Calleigh, his profession, all would have been barriers for her. If their first date hadn't been purely by accident, nothing between them would ever have occurred.Acase she'd been on that he'd beenabout to testify for was rescheduled at the last minute; they'd met in the hallway, to mourn over the chance to end the case there and then.It turned out thatboth were starving, and after ten minutes of conversation over sandwiches, they were both more than intrigued with each other. Of course, they immediately started eyeing each other's physical attributes, especially the heights, and the rest, as they say–.

And the love making, oh lordy, the fabulous, glorious, wonderful love making! That had just started, just two weeks before her death. For three months he had courted her, taken her out, met her parents, enjoyed her company, found he would not, could not stop seeing her. Perhaps it was just that first blush of a new relationship, finding this new person that can do no wrong, feeling like the sky is bluer, the air is cleaner and all is right with the world, that made the first encounter with her seem so thrilling he could hardly stand it, but it certainly seemed like it was just because she was perfect. She seemed to feel the same about him and the only reason they didn't make love more often was because they both had jobs that kept interfering. Of course, each time had lasted several hours, was definitely not Slam!-Bam!-Thank you, Ma'am.

Her figure, at first glance, he'd discovered, was very deceptive; it was all right but nothing to wow about. Of course, her five foot, eleven inches always brought stares and she had a terrific personality but still, just a so-so figure. Then, after that first, sweet time of love making, when he'd finally taken a good look at his conquest, he'd been awed. He'd heard of the phenomenon of some women looking great only in clothing and some looking better naked but here was irrefutable proof. Naked, Janet was a hugely spectacular site to behold. Was it the legs, which seemed to be ninety percent of her? Perhaps, but then, the shape of her breasts definitely caused his heart, and more, to stir. Possibly the correlation of one part to another, was the answer; some sort of artistic perfection, each part sublime, which increased exponentially as it was all put together; the breasts with the shoulders, with waist with the flare of the hips and belly, all on top of those legs. He didn't know the answer but was fascinated by the subject.

Ah, and definitely there were the legs; not just the sight of them but there was the wonderful feeling he got when they were against his, whether in bed or when dancing. Oh yeah! Since dancing today is like having sex, only to music and standing up, he had gotten a very good idea of what their first encounter in bed was going to be like the night he'd taken her to one of his favorite clubs. The band played a variety of music from South and Central America but was best at Lambada and Tango beats, tempting people to strut their stuff on the small dance floor for hours at a time. He was no Dance Contest winner by any means, but felt confident with most forms and he was delighted to find she could move very well to the Latin beats. When she ended their first dance, a tango, by wrapping one leg dramatically around his, and hugging her breasts against his chest, he was much surprised. The staid State's Attorney, Janet Medrano, who'd seemed rather prim and proper till now, making a sexy move, in public? And that was just the first dance. At the end of the evening, he'd handed the band leader about four hundred dollars, knowing it would be evenly distributed among the players, because he was so grateful. He'd had to wait another month to confirm his hunch about her prowess but it was worth it.

But, aside from the great sex, the quiet talks between them had meant far more to him. He'd been able to bring up subjects he'd not dealt with in years, laid them out to her and knew they were picked up, valued and cared about. She never gave him answers unless he specifically asked, never judged unless he requested and always made it clear that any of her thoughts were nothing to be taken too seriously, more like suggestions, perhaps. She comforted him in his sadnesses, declared fellowship to his wrath and seemed to take genuine joy whenever he smiled.

In turn he felt privileged to be privy to her woes, her tribulations which, for a black girl in Miami were many. He was very impressed by her accomplishments not only in law school, but since she'd passed the bar--the first time around–but before joining the State Attorney's Office. Of course, her work as an attorney for the state was well known by many, showing she was on the rise with even a possible future as a State's Supreme Court judge. "I just have so many ideas about how justice can be better served and the bench is the only way I can see to carry through." She admitted to having a great deal to learn meanwhile and, of all things, seemed look for his approval though he couldn't possibly think better of her or approve more. She had already become perfect in his eyes.

Neither of them seemed to have any doubts about the other on the evening before that fateful day. They'd dined at her parents' home, gone for a walk on the moonlit beach where they'd talked of the future possibilities and, in bed that night, allowed themselves to dream.

When Emma's case was done and Stewart Otis, the child killer, was locked away, Horatio went home, went to bed and cried over the loss. He'd almost had it, only almost and now he was unbearably alone again.


	2. Anna

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

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Anna

"Hallo? Yes-s-s?"

"I'm sorry, I think I have the wrong number. Please, excuse the r—"

"You called the s-s-school of lahtin donce, did you not?"

The accent that Horatio Caine was hearing was not Latin by any stretch of the imagination nor was the pointed curiosity. "As a matter of fact, I did. My apologies if I sounded rude." Receiving only silence as a reply, he continued. "I'm getting rusty on my dance steps and was wondering if you had room in your schedule for some private lessons, advanced."

Two weeks later, the very German Anna, was wrapping a shapely leg around Horatio's hips, showing him the third part to a complicated Andalusian Tango step. "Now, you place your hand on my shoulder blade, yah, like so, so I can lay back onto it, like so." The material on her long sleeved blouse stretched across her shapely breasts as she arched back into his hand. "And you move me to the side… no! Not up! Straight across!" Even strained with her effort to maintain her balance, her voice sounded commanding. "Yah, you have me under the sway of your power and you want to keep me that way for a moment longer before you pull me up!" The direction to lift her was clear. "Yah! Good! And now you release me, but leave your hand in the air. You are dumping me, done with me, and you let me slide down, disdainful of my weakness."

Horatio felt her leg sliding down his rump, down the back of his left leg, felt her body hug his, sliding down his side. Her hands raked down the front and back of his body, her left hand carefully directed just around his groin, down the center of the front of his thigh, her right unabashedly working down the rise of his right butt cheek, down the back of his leg, as she descended sit gracefully on the floor. Though not his favorite dance style, he had to admit he was enjoying the erotic benefits.

Ten minutes later, writing out a check for the full amount for the next nine lessons he was listening to the answer to his query.

"As a child, my father moved to Uruguay, just before the war started. When he was grown, he returned to the homeland with my grandparents, bringing my mother with him. They still have a very successful school of Latin dance in Düsseldorf, have a house full of awards from winning dance contests all over Europe." She sounded almost bored with her own words; no doubt, she'd had to explain the dichotomy of cultures many times.

Although her blond, blue-eyed coloring defined her Teutonic roots, Horatio detected the Latin in the fullness of her cheeks and the slight cant to the shape of her eye that hinted at South American Indian ancestry mixed with Hispanic heritage. Beautiful as she was, he dismissed the attraction he was feeling as the sensual residue from the dance lesson.

Three weeks and six lessons later, he decided the dance had nothing at all to do with his feelings towards Anna, so he asked her out for coffee after the lesson.

"Nein, keinen kaffee! Herbal tea! We must replenish our fluids!" She'd admonished. "But, yah, you weren't asking me what I wanted to drink, were you?" She looked contrite. "You are asking me out! Yah? Yah, I would like that." Half an hour later, over steaming cups of a cinnamon and orange concoction at an Indian café she explained, "I forget, sometimes, how I sound to Americans. We Germans arrange our words so that, to you, sometimes we sound as if we give orders."

"No worries, Anna, I think I know the difference between an order and a correction." To still her nervous clasping at a small napkin, his hand covered hers, and he became aware of how much more intimate this simple gesture seemed compared to the three weeks of dance-form embraces they'd been sharing. From the look on her face, she, too, was aware. Without realizing it, Horatio's voice dropped seductively, "So, what do you do, when you aren't running a dance school, giving lessons?"

That night and then subsequently, he learned she practically led a double life. As if she were two people living in the same body, as sensuous as she was on the dance floor, as sexually outgoing as she was while performing the Lambada or any of the Tangos, so she was, personally, as retiring and sweetly gentle. When she wasn't dancing, she was writing the most delightful phantasmagorical stories he'd ever read, describing swamp sprites and lords of alligators and ending with whimsical and unexpected little twists that left him smiling. At other times, she confessed, she just liked to sit on her tiny balcony and watch the dark shadows of palm trees march in opposition to the sun as it burned its way across the sky.

Another time, she revealed, "Ah, but when I hear a Latin beat, I can't sit still! It's in my blood! A Mariachi Band comes strolling by and I am up and doing a fandango, whirling and stamping, clicking my fingers. I am shameless!"

Horatio's face slowly broke into a smile at hearing this. They were sitting al fresco at a sidewalk café, he, leaning back, his long legs crossed, was listening to her revelations. He found himself wondering what Anna would be like, unleashed, without the constraints of teaching. Realizing the thought was doing a little more than bringing a smile to his face, he was glad he'd folded his hands on his lap. "We'll have to go out dancing, sometime." His quiet remark was rewarded with one of her sunniest smiles, which actually didn't help the matters in his lap one bit.

No one at Horatio's favorite dance club was surprised to see the familiar Señor Caine, although his companion as well as his mode of dress was new. Usually, he came alone to the Little Havana neighborhood club, wearing jeans and polo shirt, and spent the evening listening to the small combo play the variety of tunes from across South America. He'd sit at a table, nursing a single Mojito (Cuba's equivalent to the Southern Mint Julep), or sometimes just a cup of their excellent coffee, chat with the staff when they had time, or just spend the time in his own company. To see him with a woman was unusual, but with a woman with short, spiky hair, dressed in a gown slit up the side nearly to her hips and heels high enough to have her practically on the tips of her toes, was remarkable. To see him dressed in the dark, perfectly cut, Versace slacks, a loose, off white shirt, comfortably open down to the fourth button, and what could only properly be called black paten leather dance slippers was conversation stopping. Then, if anyone had thought nothing more could surprise them after this, they were dead wrong. Not only did the couple dominate the dance floor for the whole night with their quietly sensuous style, the wait staff, by the end of the evening, was also treated to what many referred to as, 'damned close to having sex right there on the floor! Can you imagine? The, oh, so quiet, stick-up-the-butt, Lieutenant Caine kissing that woman's tonsils and fondling her in places that you don't mention in public!' Each telling was followed by a rapid shaking of the hand and hissing intake of breath to indicate the rare impossibility of the event.

Horatio, unabashed by his arousal, was only glad Anna was responding in kind, kissing him back with the same ardor, pressing her body to his in all the right places in just the right way. After she'd admitted to readily being carried away with the sound of Latin dance music, he'd wondered just how far 'away' that might be, and had planned this evening just to find out. That she was great as a teacher and a delightful companion on dates was all very well, but he thought there might be more to her and he loved having a theory prove correct. That the proving method had backfired, that a red haze of desire had almost overwhelmed him during the last slow Tango, was more like a side benefit than a bad thing.

Two hours later, lying on his stomach while his brain was reassembling itself like a Tetris puzzle, he smiled quietly as she said, "I'm thinking you are surprised I'm so…" Anna lay naked, sprawled on her back, as Horatio idly played with her nipple. "…in German there's a word that means many things like being free, and sexually open and other things, 'experimentierfreudig'. You Americans think we Germans are very stiff. Yah? "

"To the contrary; I'm not surprised at your lack of repression, but I do wonder at your range of…knowledge." The next thing he knew, his chin had a gentle hand guiding his face to look into her cornflower blue eyes.

"I think it has to do with my mother. Mothers from Uruguay perhaps teach their daughters a little differently than American mothers. I don't think I know all that much, compared to my mother."

"Then, I think your father must be a very happy man, married to your mother."

"True. I was very lucky to learn her ways. My mother also taught me German ways. Mostly, she pointed out that one of the hallmarks of the Germans is persistence, and that women learn to take very good care of their men."

"And you," Horatio purred, "have most definitely taken very good care of me." He returned thoughtfully to his contemplation of the nipple that was nearly under his nose. Playful fingers again entwined his red-gold hair, as they had several times in the previous hour.

"Nein, schatz, you American men do not know what care is, especially not by the standards of a woman raised in Germany, with a mother from Uruguay. It will take time for me to learn how to give you complete care, but I assure you, I will. I am persistent."

"More than what you've done isn't necessary, Anna." Never had a first sexual encounter with a woman been so completely satisfying.

"Perhaps not necessary, but it is my nature. I will know, as my mother did, when you are properly cared for. Even my father, who expected care from a wife, had to have things explained to him. I remember that I once heard my mother whispering to my father when I was supposed to be in bed. I had crept close to their door, thinking I would ask for a glass of water. I only learned later what she meant when she said, 'Ah, but mi amor, I know you are not happy yet; you are still conscious'."


	3. Lee Bell

Horatio approached her, as he would approach the most rare, most beautiful flower ever grown; with wonder, delight and a sense of anticipation of discovery. She lay naked on the bed, the way he had left her a few moments ago when he went to shower.

He had slowly undressed her, taking delight in the privilege, in the treasure he'd found under each piece of the too common garb she had worn.

This was after having brought her into his bedroom, kissing her, pulling at her body, smiling at her eager responses. The two of them had more or less led each other down the hallway from the front room, she showing her willingness to get there, and he because he knew the way. That had been after nearly an hour of very heavy petting on the couch.

They had often engaged in petting over the previous couple of months and tonight, somehow, seemed right for the culmination. He was more sure now of her feelings for him, that she liked him, wanted to be with him.

Sometimes, with Lee Bell, it was hard to tell; she had a fierce tongue, an almost fervent command of language and a raunchy sense of humor. When she combined the three in one direction, as she often did towards him, he sometimes ended up feeling bit tattered. He had to keep reminding himself it was her defense system, usually gone awry, that was spouting, that she often didn't mean to sound so harsh, that she was parroting voices from a roughshod childhood.

He never could quite figure out how it was a woman with a degree in Language Arts and a Masters in European Literature could be a rough talking bar maid at a small Miami biker tavern. He'd asked, of course, and not yet gotten an entirely satisfactory answer. Usually she had countered with her own questions like what the fuck he, a detective, a criminalist, one of Miami's finest, was doing in a dark, ass-wipe place and drinking, of all things, coffee! She had accused him of being on a stakeout, of being gay, trying to pick up a biker dude and of being FDA, trying to buy drugs. It took him a while to realize she was not only just not answering his questions, but that, a natural tendency to keep his business private, only encouraged her accusations.

He had been reluctant to tell her that his first visit had been purely an act of slumming on his part, a need to be in a dingy, slightly dangerous place where he could brood, where he wouldn't be recognized, wouldn't be disturbed. Instead he'd found her. At first he was annoyed at her persistence to engage him in conversation with remarks like,'How's the java?' 'You're new, just move here?' 'Freshen up?' She'd confessed later to having been bored by a slow night and wanted to see how far she could push this pretty new face into distraction. He could never quite bring himself to confess that there was just something about her that fascinated him, drew him back several nights later and then more often.

When he found out she liked car racing he invited her to join him in the VIP section of the grandstands at the Miami Grand Prix. On a tour of the pits, she had almost gotten into a fight arguing over some fine point of fuel mixture with a crew boss, using language that obviously shocked even the tire jockeys. Walking away, looking up at him, she'd wrinkled her pug nose, mischievously indicating she'd done it just for fun.

Then she had surprised him by taking him to the gallery opening of a startlingly sophisticated exhibit of metal sculptures done by one of the patrons at the bar. Not only had she worn a dress and heels for the occasion, as opposed to stretch pants and plunging neckline jersey tops she affected at the bar, but made polite, even delightfully charming small talk with other guests and limited her swearing only to the several works she thought to be incredibly ugly. For the rest of the display she had insightful and rather erudite observations even declaring that, one day she would like to own one.

All of that, wrapped around the more and more intriguing conversations at the bar, plus the personal attraction he felt, which led to petting sessions (no other word could be used for the activity with her), either in the parking lot of the bar or after make shift meals at her home or his, had brought the two of them to now, this evening, here.

He had risen from the couch and tugged at her hand. Rising, she had given him a sideways look, a smirk on her face, and then glanced at the hallway. He had raised his chin and looked down at her, a slight smile on his face and embracing her, had walked a couple of steps backwards, pulling her with him. From there had been a mutual push and pull, kiss and fondle waltz to the bedroom.

It wasn't until much later he realized that allowing him to undress her was the supreme act of trust for her. She had admitted to being a control freak and to an absence of trust in her fellow humans so, to allow him to do this, was more than unusual for her.

For Horatio, undressing Lee Bell was an act of adoration. To just do it, slowly, carefully undo each button, buckle, snap and hook, to gently lay aside each piece, ah, what a joy.

Earlier in the evening she had confessed to having a restless night before and being sleepy, so he invited her to take a brief nap while he cleaned up. His day had been long and hot with visits to two different crime scenes, one in the everglades and he'd picked her up right after he got off of work, so fresh, he was not.

Now, dressed in a light cotton robe with a pastel tropical design, his hair still slightly damp, he came to wake her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gently pulled a light brown tress from her face. She opened her hazel eyes and smiled.

He wasn't even sure why he had put on the robe. Certainly not for modesty since he had undressed under her gaze less than half an hour ago. Then, watching her hand stray up his knee to the overlapping fold of material, he knew exactly why. There was something wonderful about feeling a woman's fingers stray under his clothing; it wasnot just sexually stimulating, andmore than just being touched andexplored, it was an invitation.

His own hand, reaching across to her far shoulder, roved over itand down the outside of her flowing breast, down to her waist and out over the wide flare of her hips. Responding to her touch under the robe, he wrapped a palm onto her hip and filled his hand with her, pulling her up, inhaling deeply.

Smiling she withdrew her hand from under the material and, reaching for the sash at his waist, tugged to loosen it. With a flourish she pulled the strips open and pulled at robe edge that lay over his belly, all the while looking into his face and smiling lazily. Her hand fell gently to the top of his exposed thigh where she dangled a couple of fingers playfully across the course red hair.

He drank in the color her eyes, light brown, flecked with a mossy green high lighted with flashes of gold. Of all eye colors, hazel brown was the most beautiful to him and hers were the best he'd found. Or perhaps, it was just the owner of these jewels, but at the moment he didn't particularly care.

Her hand wandered slowly up to his waist where she gently stoked his skin with the backs of her fingers. She left the other side of his robe untouched still covering half of his body.

The hand on her hip had released it's grip and was now splayed out over her stomach, his fingertips feeling the deep, luscious softness of the skin. From there it started a slow roam north to in between her breasts where, after a brief pause, exploring the valley between, strayed west and settled gently, cupping tenderly, catching an erect, ragingly pink nipple between the sides of two fingers.

He supposed he knew it was coming, had to come, saw the swallow in her throat, the flash in her eyes that heralded it. "Hey, Pansy-ass, you going to keep dicking around with me like I'm a fucking Barbie-doll or you going to use that tool you got under there and start pinning me to the mattress?"

Maybe that's what he'd wanted to hear. Maybe her savage frankness was what he needed to pull him away from the reality of death and crime he lived from day to day. He stood and shrugged out of the robe, letting it fall to the floor. Putting his hands on his hips, he turned just slightly and in his best arresting manner he commanded, "Move it over and spread 'em."


	4. Becca

Going to dinner, téte a téte, at an older woman's house, was among the many things Horatio Caine thought he might want do, but later in life. And this was his second visit! Of course, the first visit had been more like a courtesy call, partly to see how Becca was doing and partly to respond to her invitation to see her vintage sports car. The first proposal had come, he was sure, only because he had been so nice to her under rather extraordinary circumstances.

Normally, in the rare moments when he had time off, Horatio liked to go for drives down to the keys, but this time he had decided to take his refurbished nineteen sixty-two TR4 on one of the less traveled inland routes so he could really wind out the little red car. Fortunately, he was shifting down, enjoying the barking protest of the pipes or he would have ended up in the hole in the road as Becca had. He did ruin the tires by spinning out, and just about blew the brakes too, ending up sideways in the middle of the road about twenty feet from the edge of the sink hole.

He had no idea how long he sat waiting for his heart to slow down, but the road was rarely traveled, being a connector to larger highways for the few residents that lived in the vast forested Florida inland, so there was no hurry. As his pulse slowed and his good sense began to regain some control, he decided to move the car to the side of the road.

Humans are curious animals by nature, so, with more than his share, Horatio had to go see this hole that stretched at least fifty feet across and almost from one side of the road to the other. Approaching and, taking note of the fresh black skid marks from about fifteen feet to the edge, getting as close as he dared to the edge of crumbling asphalt, he peered over the brink and, sure enough, perched on its nose, on an incline about twenty feet down, sat a little silver 2000 Mercedes Benz SL600. The top was up so he could not see if anyone was inside.

He shouted at the car and unxpectedlygot a strong feminine response. After verifying she was uninjured but scared and ready to get out now, he called the Florida State Highway Patrol for assistance

Horatio spent about forty minutes, seated near the sink hole, getting to know his latest rescue; Her name was Becca Stanton; she recognized the sound of the make of his car because her dead husband, gone six years now, used to collect a variety of sports cars, most of which she had 'unloaded' on anyone she could find thoughshe still had an old MG that had a something called a twin cam, which Horatio, thankfully, didn't have to ask about because that was when the cavalry arrived. The Florida State Highway Patrol, a tow truck and a fire-rescue team, came up from the opposite side from Horatio's original direction with sirens and lights ablaze, making a fine site.

Half an hour later, as she was being hauled out, Horatio was much amazed to find Becca to be trim, pretty, gray haired and somewhere in her mid sixties; her voice and speech patterns having given him the impression of a much younger woman. After being checked out by the paramedics, he chatted briefly with her and this was when Horatio fell entirely under her spell. The tropical sun was cold and dim in comparison to her smile and she had a charm that would probably lure coldest fish in the ocean to come eat out of her hand. Moreover, he could tell she knew exactly how wonderful she was, how fascinating and, he had no doubt, she was not even at her top form considering what she had just been through.

"Would you do me just the least little favor?" Her blue eyes sparkled like jewels and, since nothing could be denied this woman, a date for the following Sunday was set.

Home for herwasa modest mansion in the old Tropicana Estates just north of Miami. As widow to a lumber magnate from a family of financial wizards, monied elegance was part of her every day background. She was also one of those rare, naturally stunning women who loved to use her inborn charms to please, as well as to get what she wanted. Rather than expecting to be loved because she was beautiful, she knew how to act beautifully, how much allure to mix in and when, and didn't seem to take for granted anything she received in return, whether love, just company or favors.

Originally, his plans, were to see she was okay, look at the oldcar, make polite comments about it and leave, but that is not what happened.First, was an hour's drive in the 1958 MG A 1500 with the high compression DOHC aluminum cylinder head version of the B-series engine, all of which meant nothing to him. All he knew was, driving it was great and it rode so low it was like he was wearing the highway dividing line around his shoulders. Then he was asked for an opinion of some fine old whiskey her father had given her and, finally, they had a very long conversation about one another and about this and that and so on. That day Horatio found he could be attracted to an older woman. He hadn't been so smitten or instantly bowled over by a woman since he was a teenager and knew it was an absolutely calculated move on her part, but he didn't care how the attraction worked any more than he cared about how sports cars worked. If she wanted him, she could have him.

Well, she could have him as soon as he ran a quick check on her, her husband, and both families. Trust, then verify was as much a part of his personal life as professional. Money was never squeaky clean but aside from the usual allegations about shady deals, land ripoffs, and wall street insider information, the check revealed nothing to indicate Becca was anything but idly rich, involved in the usual charities, and nice as she seemed.

Horatio waited patiently at the gated entry while the camera checked his appearance against approved faces in the photo recognition program. After the automated security allowed the gate to open he drove through, up the short drive to the porticoed entry where he saw Becca standing, waiting to receive him. To his query she answered thathe could leave the car parked as it was, since she was not expecting anyone else and that the covering would protect his car from any sudden showers.

Dinner was served in a gazebo screened with mesh so fine it did not obstruct the view of the well tended garden nor the approach of the maid as she came and went with food or drink. Whenever they were alone, much to Horatio's enjoyment, Becca leaned suggestively towards him, touching his arm or his hand to make a point, yet, as soon as the maid appeared, leaned back but with a look that promised intimacy to come. Never coquettish, as if she sensed that would put him off, her behavior still left no doubt where she intended for the relationship to head, eventually.

This time, she enticed him into staying longer than he had intended with a drinkof hundred year old Scotch and a plea to explain how the various blood detectors worked and how a CSI would know which one to use. She claimed the question came from his conversations with her but he suspected she had also done some serious homework. Again, he just plain didn't care; sitting in a den, on the softest, most luxurious leather couch he ever had pleasure to sink into, beside this gorgeous woman who was staring into his eyes, fascinated by every word he spoke, sipping a scotch that had every corner of his mouth singing praises in a glorious concert to the creation of the elixir, made him feel too damned good!

They went on several more dates, dinner out, the theater, a Miami Heat game, and had loads of fun, but it wasn't until after dinner at his condo that he first kissed her. They were out on his balcony, he was pointing at some hotel down the beach and she was looking up at him, seemingly listening with every fiber of her being, looking wonderful and he thought he just couldn't help himself. In fact, he wasn't really sure who had first initiated the kiss, but then,anything and everything was so very easy around her, he gave up even thinking about it. Three more dates, more kissing, and another dinner at her home, brought him to her bed.

And here, he found, any control which she may have wielded over the relationship out there absolutely ended; he felt it as certainly as he felt her bare back with his hand. Life, out there, was hers to play with and enjoy but now, their sexual life would be all him and whatever he made of it. He had no doubt she knew, before hand, that he always pleasured the woman entirely first and then merely rode her happiness wave to his own joy, knew his experience included knowledge of wonderful and mysterious ways to ensure such gratification, but he was also pretty sure that even if he was as self serving and uncouth as a bear, she would still have left the whole thing to him.

Not that she just sat back and took, oh no, not by far. She too had experiences she was delighted to share, diversions he had never considered, knowledge gained from her studies of hedonistic practices of the world throughout history. She laughed, she joked, she played, she was ethereally enthralling in every sense of the words. At the same time, never seeming to anticipate, she always accepted his every caress as a superb act performed just for her, sighing, closing her eyes in ecstacy, returning the touches in kind.

Still, after that conquest, she never became possessive in any sense of the word. His job involved a great deal of overtime and she continued the life she'd had before they met. They came together when they could and they kept in contact between dates but in no way was it overwhelming for either.

When they were together, however, when he could escape into her world, which was always the case, their mutual happiness seemed to know no bounds. He did not see her as older but as a divinely lovely, sophisticated, intellectual woman he hated to part from and she did not treat him as any less than what he was, intelligent, charming, cultured and most worthy of all she had to offer.


	5. Danielle

Some people do not know there is a difference between the color navy blue and just plain black. Oh, perhaps they know but only intellectually. Label the colors differently and, of course, there's a difference, there must be. But simply present a swatch of one color, remove it, and then present a swatch of the other color and most people will declare there is no difference between the two.

Not that Horatio was counting on that difference or even thought that much about it. It's just that, thanks to an excellent choice of tailor several years ago, who had convinced him to go with a navy blue tuxedo, he was always one of the most attractive men at any occasion to which he wore it. He didn't realize the subtle color brought out the reds in his hair more vividly and most particularly the green highlights in his slightly grey blue eyes.

He did know the tailor produced an excellently well cut product, one that made him feel comfortable and flattered his build. Most men hated to wear tuxedos but, though not the CSI lieutenant's favorite garb, he did not mind donning this one on occasion.

And this occasion, another benefit gala heavily sponsored by Miami-Dade Police Department, had so far been run of the mill. At least, until now.

Perhaps it was the gown that clung to her long curves, covering only essentials on top and flowing in glittering steel-gray cascade against hips and legs over an occasional flash of silver sandals on beautifully tanned feet. Perhaps it was her dark hair pulled in a Grecian Fall style first high to the back of her head and tumbling in dark waves to her neck. Perhaps it was the way she walked and stood, carried her arms, gestured with her hands. All of it gave her the illusion of height, length, zenith, if you will.

"Hey, Handsome. They hogtied you into coming too?"

"Indeed they did, Calleigh."

"Alexx is around here someplace. I saw her and her husband a bit ago. He sure is a mucky-muck; really in his element with all these money-bags floating around."

"Heh."

"Oh! There's my friend Danielle over there. I'm going to have to pop over there and say hey."

Not realizing he sounded hopeful, "Which one, the tall one?"

Having watched Horatio ogle the woman for the last ten minutes from his spot near the wall Calleigh decided to play it cool. "Not the one in the red dress. The other one." The 'one' in the red dress was a dowager in her seventies.

"A friend of yours?"

"An older sorority sister. She'd graduated before I came into the house but she came back for visits. We got to be pretty chummy."

"Is she one of the guests here?"

"Oh, no. She's one of the organizers of this shin-dig. I think it's a business for her. She knows names; names with money, names who have the facilities, the flowers, the decorations, the food. All that! She always did. She knows how to make it all come together. Just one of those people that is good at anything she tries."

Horatio nodded appreciatively. "Hmm."

"Come on over with me. I think you'll like meeting her." Calleigh knew darned well he would.

Just as the introductions were made a man in a security uniform ran up to whisper into Danielle's ear. "Oh, dear." She looked embarrassed. "Calleigh, it seems I have a problem and uh, I'm wondering if I could impose on you and Lieutenant Caine here for a favor."

Looking to the her boss she replied, "Well, we're off duty..."

"Isn't this something security can take care of?" He tilted his head.

Looking gorgeously flustered Danielle tried to give an appreciative look to the guard who was still standing by. "It's just that a guest upstairs in one of the VIP areas is well, behaving inappropriately and if we, well, if he is offended he might withdraw his support or actually, the family might..."

"And," concluded Horatio, "to be admonished by a mere security guard would be considered offensive." He looked over at the muscular uniformed man with sympathy and got a very slight shrug, a slight roll of the eyes. Reaching over to gently touch Danielle on her wrist he said, "You know what? I'll be right back." Gesturing to the security guard to follow, the dapper Horatio, turned and trotted up the wide, curving staircase.

Ten minutes later Horatio was explaining, "I just mentioned that I knew his father's number and would happily call to ask if he minded his son getting a police escort home. I gave the number to Mark, the security guard, just in case."

Danielle clapped her hands in delight. "I'll keep that in mind for the next time that happens. Thank you, that was perfect!"

Horatio's eyes danced in the light of the appreciation. He was about to proceed with some small talk when a woman in a black skirt and a short-cut, white server's jacket approached and stood up tall to whisper something in Danielle's ear. Looking apologetic she excused herself and ran off to attend to the business of keeping a gala running smoothly.

Calleigh looked up with an affectionate smile. This matchmaking stuff wasn't easy! "Oh! There's Alexx. Let's go talk."

Eventually Horatio had to wander off to do the 'political thing,' get noticed for his presence by the proper brass, look interested in what the representative City Councilperson had to spout on about, accept some gushing compliments about the 'tremendous job he and the other police officers were doing' from several of the very monied, bejeweled matrons present, so it was some time before Calleigh found him again.

"Did you hear? Hurricane Elsa has decided to pay a visit after all."

"Two hours ago it was supposed to be more than a hundred miles south of here but has veered north. I hear," was the replying purr.

"Well, it's sure clearing out the crowds here. People want to get home, afraid the roads might get blocked."

"And you, Calleigh?"

She flopped a hand, "Oh, I'm not worried and neither is my date. It's only a category one, going to be off shore anyway, cause some weather is all."

Horatio, taking a sip of the very fine whiskey he'd been nursing all evening long, smiled in agreement. "A little rain, a little thunder and lightning making for an interesting evening all around."

"I talked with Danielle for a second. She said the dance orchestra is staying, that they were paid to play until one o'clock, so Mark and I are going to dance until they toss us out into the storm." She smiled hugely in anticipation then urged Horatio to join her and the rest at their table in the banquet room.

"So the party will continue for those who wish to stay?" He strolled beside his favorite blond.

"It's only the newbies that are leaving. Of course, that accounts for about half of the guests here."

A couple of hours later, a relaxed Horatio, tie loosened, but on watch as usual, surveyed the large ball room. The tables, set around the highly polished, black dance floor, cleared of the dinnerware, most empty of occupants, still had their white cloths on them the skirts of which were swishing in the breeze from the open french doors, making the tables appear animated, as if eager to get up and dance. The ambient light of the room was brightened now and again by flashes from the storm outside, which revealed a lone, very attractive figure seated at one of those tables on the opposite side of the dance floor.

Horatio excused himself from the surrounding party and as he walked to the table, which was set in the direct path of a breeze from one of the doors, his hair was caught and ruffled by a puff of wind. Just as he spoke, there was a flash of lightning, "May I have this dance, Danielle?"

He was greeted by charming smile, "It would be my pleasure."

Later that evening and on too rare occasions thereafter there was more pleasure of a personal nature for the both of them.


	6. Crystal

Sometimes, Horatio got tired of caring so much, got tired of responding with everything he had, attempting to repair the mistakes of others, both on and off the job. Sometimes he had to escape from his life and for just that reason, he had taken some time off and driven up the coast, ending up in Brunswick, Georgia. Out of state meant out of his jurisdiction, away from anything that smacked of responsibility.

He had dressed down, out of his usual tailored suits and Italian designer shoes to some off the rack, kick-ass biker boots, jeans and a flea market leather jacket. He'd even decided to rent a little beater rather than drive his own 1962 TR4. For now, he wanted nothing of his life in Miami on or around him, and, who knows, if things went just so, maybe he'd never go back.

The bar he'd randomly picked was in the middle of a quiet street, in a neighborhood that had only recently seen better days. The sidewalk was still cleaned regularly and the paint outside was still firmly attached to the walls. Inside the lighting was still ambient rather than darkened, to save money, and the bartender merely glanced at him rather than giving that hard look of assessment.

Taking a stool, four away from the lone woman at the bar, he'd decided to start with beer. Served, his money taken, left alone, he had swiveled on the seat to observe his surroundings. So, here he was, away from it all, free as a bird. Yeah.

Checking the Timex, purchased the day before, it was nine-thirty and, there were only five other people in the whole damned dive. Glancing over to the woman, he called out, "Is this place always this quiet?"

The woman, close to Horatio's age by appearance, shifted, arched her back, looked at him briefly without smiling, then back to her drink, and answered, "Last couple of months, yeah."

Hiking his elbows to lean against, he continued, "Sounds like you're a regular. Are you?" Looking at her over his shoulder, he saw her make a face at the bartender and sensed the bartender was noncommittal in his look back at her.

Turning to give him a less than appraising look, she announced, "I'm not working tonight, okay?"

"Neither am I."

Her lips snarledupin disgust. "I knew you were a fucked-ass cop."

"Wanna dance?"

"Go to hell."

Their banter was interrupted by an eruption of people coming through the front door. Evidently, from the chatter, they hadbeen at a meeting and this was where they came afterwards. A few minutes later, the jukebox came to life with the latest country-western sounds and two couples began gyrating, more or less in time to the music, on the stamp-sized dance floor.

Horatio couldn't help but see two men in the group nudge each other as they eyed the woman at the bar. He knew without hearing a word what was about to happen, and caught himself before he tried brushing his jacket aside to reveal the badge he had left on the dresser at home.

Carefully not making eye contact as they approached, lowering his gaze to contemplate the floor, he let his unusually wide field of vision take in the action. He couldn't hear the conversation but could see that, by their body movements, they first, verified her profession, then made an offer, were refused and then, first tried to cajole her, then made petulant, annoying threats.

Horatio felt some sort of perverse satisfaction in knowing there wasn't much he could do to help. Though half way in the mood, he had nocause to start a fight, and could see no reason to rescue her anyway since he didn't know her. He relaxed. Life was so simple this way. At least, it was until he heard a voice call to him, "Hey, aren't I supposed to be at that party in half an hour?"

Considering several possible outcomes for this set up, he decided on the easiest path. "Well, get off your ass and let's go! What, you want I should carry you?" He swung his head towards the door otherwise not moving.

Watching as she sauntered by, he rose when she was half way to the door, and said only loud enough for the two pests to hear, "Dumb fucking broad. I ought 'a beat. . ." Leaving the rest to their imagination, he figured that would keep them from following.

When he stepped outside he expected to see her halfway down the block but instead she was standing out front, expectantly looking at him. He scowled and shook his head. "Beat it, I'm not the Humane Society."

Eyeing him levelly, she smirked. "Thanks anyway." She turned to walk away.

A quick survey of the empty streets and too many shadows drove him to call out, "Shit! Car's over here, get in. Where you want me to drop you off?"

In the car, leaning back against the door she seemed more at ease. "What place you staying? And don't get cute, cop-fucker. This is a rental, from Florida, so don't say you live around here."

Hanging an arm on the steering wheel, facing her, he noticed she was attractive. "None of your business. Either say where you want me to take you or I'll drop you off in front of Brunswick PD and let you renew some old acquaintances."

"You were out to get drunk and you only had half a beer, so what say I take you to another place I know, set you up with your choice, and we'll call it even? My name is Crystal, by the way." She pronounced her name as Chris tal with emphasis on the second syllable.

Two hours later in a cheap motel bed, not the one he had already paid for earlier in the evening, Horatio heard, "Simple, dirty sex is how you like it, huh? Just turn me around, get it off and done?" He knew she no more wanted an answer to this question than to know who he was. His blue eyes took in every nuance of each move she made as she continued, "Actually, I prefer it that way myself. Don't need or want to know anything more about you."

He wondered if lying was just part ofwhat she did for a living or if it had always been part of her makeup. Not, he reminded himself, that he cared. Later, he did her again, from the front.

——That's how it had all started, over five years ago. Since then, two or three times a year, sometimes once in a year, he would leave a message with her answering service, drive toBrunswick, meet her in nondescript motel rooms, and simply screw her. Sometimes he demanded she service him, run her hands over his body as she looked up from her kneeling position on the bed. Usually he just shoved her over a chair, against a wall, pulled her thong down from under her skirt and did her standing up. Sometimes, so powerful was his pent up rage at the world he fought, day in and day out, he knew he hurt her. On one occasion, he actually made love to her, slowly removing her clothing, caressing her, kissing her.

"Florida," she had declared to him after that incident, "don't you ever do that to me again. I have to put up with that sort of crap every goddamn day." Her Georgian accent, usually soft and refined, became clipped and flat. "You come in, you do me as hard, as fast, any way you want and as often as you want, but don't lay your hands on me like that or we're done."

Other than the very first night, she had never tried to talk to him or to socialize with him. All he knew about her, she had told him that hour of talking at the second bar. She was a middle class hooker, had several regulars that paid for the basics of life and then she picked men up when she wanted extras. That night, she was trying to take a night off, but c'est la vie. She admitted tobeing attracted to him and then quickly reminded him she still wasn't free or even cheap just because of that. From the way she'd talked then, he judged that, by now, she could probably retire, and for all he knew, she had, but used him now as part time work. She still looked damn fine to his eyes, still aroused a second performance.

After the first round, usually after a brief nap, she would quietly go take a shower and he would clean up in the sink. Sometimes they would lie on the bed and just look at each other, and sometimes she brought magazines and would read until he called to her for another bout, but never did they talk, except in the discharge of the business at hand. He went to her for one reason, and whether she was happy about it or simply accepted it, he didn't know and didn't have to care.

Once, returning home from a visit to her, he realized that that was exactly her whole idea. She had pegged him and his fantasy that first night and had concocted this world for him. As with so many prostitutes, within minutes, she had figured out what would quickly satisfy him and what would bring him back. Apparently, like football players who didn't mind being tackled and slammed to the ground, she didn't seem to mind sexual pain. She had the savvy and prowess to know how to take his brief bouts of savagery without permanent injury, knowing there was a point beyond which he would never trespass. She'd sensed, from the start, he needed a place to just turn off, a place where he didn't have to give anything, where he could unleash sexual tensions without bounds and without commitment, and. for a few bucks, provided herself as that place. That was as far as his analysis had gone because, if he went any further, he knew he would care.

He also knew that one day he would call, find her service was no longer accepting messages and would never see her again, and knew he would care, but for now, on his way again to Brunswick, Georgia, Horatio Caine was looking forward to taking without giving.


	7. Tia

Tia

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, what a shame.

Dedicated to a lady I know and her friend, Rhonda.

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Hey, red, you think you're hiding back here? Damn! But you look so sexy in that tux." To have come up on the CSI Lieutenant unobserved, Tia Christiansen had to have sidled by the window of the opposite wall and gone behind the other decorative palm.

Since the Miami Mayor's soirée hadn't offered the fine whiskey he preferred for social lubrication, Horatio Caine had been leaning against a wall, indulging in a little people watching, and, obviously, had gotten too involved. Withholding his first response as well as his breath, he finally exhaled, "How long did you plan your route before sneaking up?"

He heard her hard-edged voice soften. "Just long enough, apparently. You forget to hide behind the door when they looked for volunteers for this thing?"

"Tried. Glass doors at the work place, you know. Besides, I'm the only one His Honor can remember. I think it's the hair."

"Yeah, it's why I keep picking on you, too. Wear a hat next time."

"You covering this affair for the paper or signaling ships at sea?" Horatio's eyes rode the simple lines of her flamboyantly red gown that hid nothing of her slender figure.

"No, I'm a close, personal friend of the Mayor's wife," she sniggered.

"Having called her a bitch to her face, I can see why. I'm shocked they let you through the front doors. So, you seem to have three of your favorite people to write about in the same room. No doubt tomorrow's edition will look a bit singed at the edges."

"You're being summoned, oh, victim o'mine."

The tight, close-lipped grin Horatio gave the Mayor and his cronies was what Tia called his silly 'I'm smiling because I was told to' look saying that it was a neon lit 'tell' on his real feelings of ambivalence. He was certain that she would grieve him about it later, but the way she'd do it would sure make showing up at this dog-and-pony-show worth the effort.

"How," he had asked her once, "can you jump into bed with me and then write what you do the next day? Isn't that against the rules?"

With her light brown hair fanned around her head in a curling mass, she'd flashed her hazel eyes up at him, smirked, then, raising her head, grabbed a few of his chest hairs in her teeth, and yanked just hard enough to make his eyebrows twitch. "Rules are meant to be broken," she'd whispered as she'd countered the hair-pull with a caress to his nether regions that elicited grunt of desire and made him forget his temporary annoyance.

Those shifts between gentle and almost painful lovemaking that constantly kept him on guard, plus many other aspects to her behavior, were not only aggravating, but also downright suspicious, even for a reporter. When he'd found out (trust but verify) that, in the past, she'd reported under a variety of pseudonyms in several different cities from Denver to Miami, all of his warning flags had waived like banners. Her explanation that different newspapers required different associated personalities, thus names, didn't really assuage his doubts. Sometimes he wasn't sure he even liked this hardball reporter.

And yet, from that first late night, when she'd cornered him at a new crime scene, he'd felt an irresistible pull to her. She'd come roaring up in a bright blue VW bug from out of nowhere and, before she'd even slammed the door shut, had started taunting him about his investigative methods on his last case, questioning whether he was using the same processes for this new crime. Lights from the signs on the surrounding stores bounced off of the rain puddles in the empty parking lot, giving her lightly freckled face peculiar highlights. Tired and wet from his eighteen-hour day of rescuing evidence from the sporadic rain showers, he was trying to be patient with this yappy woman, who was spouting nonsense. While he was waiting for an opening to excuse himself, she'd suddenly stopped her tirade, looked up him and said, "Damn, but you're good looking!"

Instead of being put off by the obvious ploy at distraction, he was caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

As strident and pushy as she had been seconds earlier, she suddenly became as pliant and yielding, her sharp voice lowering, becoming honey-smooth. "I'm supposed to be up your ass right now, proving to our readers you're a lousy cop in a lousy police department, but seeing you up close like this, all I can think about is how attractive I'm finding you." Ten minutes later, she'd persuaded him to meet her for coffee, after he dropped his evidence off at the Lab, "for just half an hour and no reporter questions."

Not quite sure of whether it was her eloquent flirtations, or if he was just too tired to find an excuse, a rather bemused Horatio stood in a light rain for some moments after she'd driven off, considering whether he really wanted a voluntary encounter with her, friendly or no. The thought was interrupted by an ominous rumble, a reminder that there would probably be another downpour in a few seconds, but before he'd turned the key in the Hummer, he'd known he was going to go meet her.

At the coffee shop, he met a rather stimulating person who seemed to know exactly how to pique his interest even further with nothing more than smiles and eyebrow shifts as she confessed to being dumbfounded at an attraction to him. When she'd insisted on leaving at the half hour, as much to extend the moment with her as anything, he'd asked her out to dinner for the next evening. Still, she stayed no longer than it took to scribble her address and phone number on a piece of paper and was gone.

Then, that next night, yet a completely different personality greeted him. If she'd been dressed in leather and carrying a whip, she couldn't have more clearly signaled she expected only compliance from him. Not being of the compliant sort, Horatio was tense throughout the meal, but allowed the evening to continue only because he knew the dominatrix' role is to arouse sexual feelings, and he wanted to see how far she was going to go with this. After dinner, he was a little intrigued that she insisted they go for a stroll on a crowded beachfront walkway, thinking she would find some barely secluded place along the way and make sexual demands of him, but instead, after an hour of strained conversation, she demanded to be taken home. Sure she was going to require he enter, he wasn't surprised when, after thoroughly and suggestively kissing him outside of her front door, he nearly came to orgasm, but he was completely amazed at her evil little grin when she said goodnight, backed away, and closed the door in his face.

On the phone the next day, expecting a sultry voice daring him to invite her out again, he heard, instead, her reporter's brisk no-nonsense reply and nearly forgot why he'd called. She so offhandedly accepted another date with him, he thought maybe she was in a situation where she couldn't talk, but he found out later how mistaken he was. Instead of the dominatrix on the next date, she was a playful, sophisticated socialite. He finally realized Tia simply enjoyed role-playing and eventually got used to never being sure of what personality he would next encounter. Once, she was a computer geek in twin ponytails with tats on her arms, but next, she was back to being the reporter, trying to get information from him, which didn't go well at all. Then, she seemed to be some sort of a proud dowager who insisted on good manners and reminisced on how things 'used to be'. Strange to say, he was absolutely attracted to each persona she presented because, underneath, it was always her and he liked her, although he couldn't say why.

When he questioned her about the behavior, the casual explanation was, "Different nights, different moods, is all. I bet you like the variety, anyway." She'd refused to answer all of his inquiries on the subject after that.

The first night that he took her to bed, she was an irresistible little minx who wriggled, giggled, and obviously enjoyed his every touch. Several nights later, she was a virgin on her wedding night, anxious to please and eager to learn, but the next, he encountered the dominatrix who correctly proved his theory of the purpose of control being sexual arousal. Each diverse encounter, always sexually rewarding, if sometimes perplexing, certainly fed his love of enigmas, a criminalist's basic sustenance, and proved her comment about variety very true.

Three months after the Mayor's party, they were dining at the French café, Les Chinoise, and as their main course was being served, she quietly said, "I'm moving to Houston, leaving tomorrow."

None of the evening's conversation had given warning this was coming which elicited his, now, most common response, "Excuse me?" And then he asked, "For how long?"

"Forever. Its time, is all." She eagerly tore into her duck l'orange.

The ambient restaurant sounds dominated their table while Horatio ruminated over his steak au poivre. Should he be cute and ask if it was something he'd said? Should he inquire as to when she'd made the decision and why he hadn't been warned sooner? Was this, perhaps, a new personality she was trying out, a trickster who would suddenly declare, 'Gotch'a!' in a few moments? Was she waiting for his expression of dismay and sadness so she could encourage him to plead with her to stay? Suddenly, he was weary of the constant guessing games.

"I wish you every success, Tia." Not sure what response he expected, he wasn't prepared for her happy nod as she took another bite of the gooey meat from her plate.

They didn't speak another word through dinner or on the drive to her apartment; he couldn't think of anything appropriate and she seemed oblivious to everything, content to be in her own little world. When he turned off the engine, she was so quick to get out and close the car door, he didn't even have time to reach for his own door handle. Peering after her through the passenger window, he watched her hips twitch bewitchingly as she walked quickly toward her building. She never looked back. Seeing that she had safely entered the secure lobby area, watching her disappear into the elevator, his sigh was either one of relief that it was over or for the loss of an amazing lover, but he wasn't sure which.


	8. Kiveli

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

Kiveli

At first, Horatio couldn't figure out why it seemed like he should know Kiveli. He knew she had only been in the states for a few weeks and yet he could swear he knew her from some place. Then, he realized that there was a resemblance to Detective Stella Bonasera, the crime scene investigator in New York, the same dark hair, the same high cheekbones, the same jaw line. Kiveli's lips were fuller, her hair wavy instead of curly, but the resemblance was sure. How he'd even remembered Bonasera's brief comments about her half-Greek roots, he couldn't say, but now that he did, the reason for Kiveli's familiarity was obvious.

His active mind, having solved one puzzle, was only left with the larger question now; why was he attracted to another 'young' woman? She was beautiful, sweet, intelligent, but she was twenty-eight years old! He could see the attraction to the similarly aged Marisol, which, in retrospect, was not, perhaps, the healthiest relationship he'd ever had. Other than age, however, there was nothing similar between Kiveli and Marisol. As frail as Marisol was, Kiveli was that robust. As quiet as Marisol had been, Kiveli was rambunctious and full of mischievous, loud fun. He was not, by nature, a lecherous old man, on the prowl for children, and yet, here he was again, smiling at every thought of the very lovely, and oh, so young, woman, nearly half his age!

Last year, a murder had been committed outside of the restaurant owned by Takis Pulos, who happened to be a cousin to Kiveli's mother. In the course of repeated visits to the crime scene, Horatio had found the joys of Greek food as well as a good friendship with Takis, who loved discussing a favorite topic, the psychological nuances of ancient Greek plays. Now, though the investigation was over, he continued to pay frequent visits to the café, which was how he'd met Kiveli. The Pulos' were hosting their cousin's daughter while she was pursuing a Master's degree in illustrative art, specializing in police work. By sheer coincidence, she was about to start a short stint as an apprentice Police Artist at the MDPD.

"When I go to work at home," she'd explained, "I will have to develop a whole ID program for the police department of Athens. They have one, but they need better. At your department, I'll hear what people say as they describe someone and see how the program your artists use works to make a picture. Then, I'll make one that works better!"

The defiant superiority in her eyes, as she described her future, made them flash sea-green highlights as if reflecting the dashes of green color of his blue eyes. He hoped she was flirting with him, using those flashes as signals, yet not daring to hope. But how, he wondered, would Takis take his interest in this treasure? True, she was of legal age anywhere in the world, should know her own mind, but he also knew the Greeks were very protective of family. He didn't want to cross boundaries, but…

He sighed, knowing he was daydreaming to put off the paperwork in front of him as much as wondering about a future that would probably never develop. In any case, her stay here was temporary, a student visa, so it was probably best not to even get started!

He was so involved in his thoughts, Detective Frank Tripp's voice calling his name actually startled him. "Yes, Frank?"

"This young lady says she knows you?" Frank found himself nearly overwhelmed by the eager girl as she squeezed past him. He was almost going to say, 'Well, excuse you!' but saw Horatio jump up to greet her and held his tongue.

"No one believes I know the famous Lieutenant! A silly little girl, a student from Greece, to know him? Ha! They all say." She threw a triumphant toss of her head at her escort.

Horatio found it hard to meet Frank's speculative stare, embarrassed at how happy he was to see Kiveli. Then, gathering himself, realizing why she was here, the discomfiture was replaced with his sense of command. "You showing her around, Frank? Good! They getting your paperwork in order, Kiveli? When do you start the apprenticeship?"

Frank reminded, "First they have to do a routine check. Maggie, in Personnel, told me everything should be ready by the beginning of the week. I'm just showing her the layout of the place so she doesn't end up in the morgue when I try to send her up here."

Horatio caught her questioning look. "Good thinking, Frank. After all, she's learning to interpret what people tell her about the bad guys, and in the morgue, dead men tell no tales." Seeing the question growing in her eyes, he knew he'd have to pay a visit to the restaurant, that evening, to explain. Now, at a loss for further words, very aware of her smile and Frank's observations, he was almost grateful that his cell went off. "Kiveli, I have to take this. It's been nice seeing you." He knew Frank would ask her a few questions while finishing the tour, and knew the news of the young lady would spread, be discussed, and would be fully analyzed before the afternoon was out. The department was the same as a school campus that way.

"So, file mou, when you gonna ask Kiveli out on a date?" A week after Kiveli had started her apprenticeship, Takis was slapping a salad plate on the table. "She's not gonna be here forever, you know. Maybe six months, tops, to get her degree, then she'll be gone and there you'll be scratching your…head, wondering how you missed the chance."

An hour later, after Kiveli had returned from doing some research on a project she was developing for her thesis, Horatio was asking her to go out with him. To his relief, she seemed to think it was about time. He was sure she was as aware as he was that they were being watched from the kitchen by two doting surrogate parents, that they were being chaperoned from a distance, as it were. She apparently didn't care.

Since taking her out to dinner would be a bit redundant, they agreed on a movie for a first date. While waiting for the movie to start, seeming to read his mind, she remarked, "You want to know why I said yes to go out with an older man? Other than you being famous, I mean?" Getting only a look from him, she continued. "Because, in Greece, age is not a question. If I like a boy in first year college, and he likes me, I would go out with him. I was just happy you like me." She twisted in her seat, rose up, and kissed him on the cheek. "Very happy." Her smile seemed to give a brilliant golden glow to the theater.

What most amazed him about this wonderful woman was her complete acceptance of his desire for discretion. As ebullient and desirous of touch as she was with him on dates, or even in the Pulos restaurant, she was that reserved and distant on the job. Only when she was sure no one was looking, would she show him a slow wink, a knowing glance and then smile hugely as his chin fell to his chest and a blush that matched the color of his hair crept past his shy grin. Otherwise, she was cool as a cucumber in his presence and from the bits of gossip he could pick up, was so close mouthed about how she knew him, the rumor of them being an item died completely. He never would have thought she could show so much tact, but that turned out to be only part of what he didn't suspect about her.

Somehow, one day, while they were barely into the 'cuddling' stage of the relationship, the question of how Greeks 'did it', versus how Americans 'did it', came up. They were in his living room, relaxing, trying to decide what to do with a free afternoon. "Oh, you don't know what love is until you have been Greeked."

Horatio glanced at her, wondering if she had any idea of what she'd just said. "I don't think that means the same thing to you as it means to me, sweetheart."

"I don't know what you think it means, joujouko mou, and I'm not good with English to explain." She jumped up from the couch. "How do you say? Nothing like the present, to show you what I mean. Come, this place is too narrow, small. I think you must have a fine American size bed. Take me, then I'll show you."

Half an hour later, she was poised, on her hands and knees over his naked body, avoiding his erection, behind her, looking very much in control. He already felt thoroughly kissed and wondered what else she had in mind. As she settled herself onto his midsection, he felt the warm dampness between her legs. '_Thank God for age!_' A few years ago, knowing she was that ready, he'd have never lasted with her. Still, he wanted her now, very, very much but obviously, she wasn't done with this Greeking business.

As if hearing him, she said, "You know, some meals, in Greece, last for hours? We really know how to enjoy our food. And eating, in Greece, is considered second, in importance in life, to sex. We do that even more slowly." Putting a forefinger into her mouth, pulling it out glistening, she laid it on the center of his forehead and then slowly drew a line down, around his eyes, through his glowing red sideburns, under his cheekbones and to his mouth. First, she traced his lips before dropping the tip inside, touching his tongue. He immediately closed his lips around it as she played inside, using it as she had used her tongue, moments before. Exploring, touching his teeth, going under his tongue, the finger gently followed the line of his gums and back to his tongue.

When she withdrew it, he opened his eyes to see an incredibly beautiful look on her face, which he took as an invitation. He retrieved her hand, chose another finger, and put it into his mouth, laving it gently, moving it to his teeth, encouraging it to play as the other had done. Hearing a small, sighing moan, he knew he'd learned a new trick for his own repertoire of pleasures to give.

Releasing her finger from his mouth, he pulled it slowly down his neck, feeling the sensuously wet trail following behind. Lifting her hand slightly, he let the tips of her fingers drift across the very top of the hair on his chest, back and forth. Seeing the smile on her lips, as she accepted the enticement, he released her hand and closed his eyes to enjoy the sensations as she toyed with first the hair and then his nipples. Soon her other hand had joined in, caressing the tiny bits of erect flesh.

When she paused, he reached up, pulled her down into a hug, and rumbled throatily into her ear. "You say Greek meals can last for hours? And eating is considered secondary to sex? Let me introduce you to American Fast Food.


	9. Sharon

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

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Sharon

By the early evening, the summer afternoon showers that had relieved the pressure of the day's heat were like wet dreams, leaving damp stains and comfortable memories. Joining many of Miami's citizens who came out to enjoy these sun dusted moments, Horatio Caine sat lounging on a park bench, relishing the sounds of the children in the playground, trying to forget the lab, if just for an hour.

To force himself to be in the here and now, to keep his mind from wandering back to those tantalizing bits of evidence, he turned his eyes to the people around him, seated, walking, and playing. Among them, the children and their mothers, the elderly, the tired office workers, he spied a familiar face, in a familiar pose. Officer Sharon Katpin, the police sketch artist, was sitting huddled over a pad, repeatedly looking up and down. With each look down, her pencil darted over the page, with each look up, it froze, waiting for the next bit of information to give it direction. Following her gaze, Horatio saw the dark headed object of her concentration, a little boy seated on the sand, about two, fascinated by the up-and-down action of a seesaw, his brown face filled with wonder.

"You don't get enough time to draw at work?" To hide his embarrassment at startling her, he knelt down to pick up the papers she'd dropped. Before she hastily snatched them from his hands, he couldn't help but see that the sheaf contained at least one sketch of him and, from her move to cover them, suspected there were several others as well.

"Lieutenant Caine! Hi! Yeah, well, it's nice to draw my view of real life, not from someone else's memory, you know.

"I couldn't help but notice one of the subjects in the drawings. I'm flattered." Sitting beside her, he had to bend forward a little to see past the curtain of soft brown curls, as she dipped her head.

"You're not angry? I mean, because I drew you?" She studied his face, looking for something. "I mean, some people don't like to be examined closely enough to be drawn, consider it to be a kind of invasion of privacy. It's just that, well…" her voice nervously trailed off, as she tugged her trim walking shorts down to the middle of her thighs, her bare legs flashing appealingly, one over the other.

The fact that she was even more attractive out of uniform wasn't lost on him. Suddenly examining his shoes, he realized how pleased he actually was to have been noticed by her. They'd worked around each other for years now, and he couldn't help but admire the way this veteran officer worked with witnesses, how she would casually engage them in conversation and pull out forgotten observations, thus being able to put just the right facial details on her sketches, ones that often made for quicker and more positive identification. He'd become very 'aware' of her since her recent transfer back to MDPD. Well, perhaps being the prettiest thing in the whole department, besides Calleigh Duquesne, of course, had something to do with it.

Taking a chance, enjoying the opportunity to feel a bit boyish, Horatio tried to sound casual as he inquired, "Are you doing anything this evening?" The evidence in the lab would wait for tomorrow.

It turned out that she did have plans and invited him to come along, which was how Horatio got to revive a nearly forgotten love for bowling that night. To his chagrin, he only achieved an average of one-thirty-one after four games, not his past average of one-sixty-four by any stretch, and he hoped that it was, at least, partly because he was so very conscious of the all too lascivious leers from Sharon's girlfriends every time he stepped up.

"They were verifying that I have good taste in men," she'd joked afterwards. "They don't go ga-ga over everyone, I'll tell you that. Well, the two that are married sometimes do, just to be silly, but the others don't."

Horatio privately admitted that watching Sharon's behind as she bowled, hadn't been too hard on the eyes, either. More, he realized that being with her, he hadn't thought once about work. Before saying goodnight in the parking lot, he asked to see her again.

To play it safe, or so he thought, he took her bowling, for their first real date, the following week. At first, everything went well; he upped his average to one-forty-five and he happily discovered they had a mutual interest in analytical psychology. But then, as they were saying goodnight at her apartment door, she reminded him of her artistic interests by shyly asking if he would pose for a 'real portrait', sometime soon.

"Sure, only, do you think we could do it in the evening or late afternoon? Even with industrial strength sunscreen, I don't do too well for extended periods in the sun, especially at this time of the year."

"Uh, ahem" she cleared her throat. "Er, uh, well, the sort of posing I had in mind wouldn't require us to be outside, Horatio." The violet-blue in her eyes became more vivid against the flush in her cheeks. A rising pitch in her voice made the next remark sound almost hopeful. "Unless, of course, you're a nudist?"

The next day, at her apartment, her first comment that was she knew he'd be "beautiful without clothes." To his inquiry as to why, she answered, "Well, I suspected it long ago, but watching you bowl was what confirmed it for me. You move with a powerful grace that shouts good muscle balance. You're a joy to watch as you throw a ball, did you know that?"

Never before had he been aware that his blushes didn't stop at his neck.

Two hours later, she released him from the comfortable position they'd both decided they could live with, sitting on the couch, one leg folded under him, the other on the floor as he leaned casually against the back cushion, his head slightly tilted to one side, his gold-red hair attractively engaging the afternoon light from the window on his right. She'd taken a chair opposite him, a few feet away, her pad on her knees.

As soon as she'd suggested a break, glad to be able to move, he rose to stretch, only to see her face spread into a delighted smile as she murmured, "Oh, my!"

"Excuse me?"

"Uh, look at the time! I didn't realize we'd been at it so long. I'll fix some coffee while you get dressed." She hurried off.

As soon as she disappeared, Horatio let out a gust of relief. As detached as she declared she was, as an artist, he'd had a hell of a time controlling himself. Being naked with a woman he found so striking and not acting on it had been almost more than he could bear.

They tried for another sitting for the next week, but work and personal business interfered, and again over the next couple of weeks. Meanwhile, they enjoyed lunches together a few times, and even managed to dine on the run, once, on hot dogs from the stand at the park, before Horatio had to return to the lab.

Then, life settled down for them both and they continued meeting at her apartment. After the second posing session, dressed again, Horatio found Sharon in the kitchen, puttering over coffee and 'fixings'. Assured she'd be "done in a second," his eyes fell on her drawing pad on the counter. Curious about the progress of the portrait, he lifted the cover and couldn't help but approve of how she saw him. Wondering what other projects she might be working on, he lifted the clean sheets to reveal several loose papers underneath, each filled with colorful detail. The first was the child she'd been sketching in the park, but the next one left him stunned; clearly it was one of him, nude, but it was one for which he hadn't posed. He was on a bed, on his knees, between a woman's raised legs, facing her. The woman's face was unfinished, merely a blank oval, but he was pretty sure he knew who she was; there was no doubt as to what they were doing.

"Oh! Jeez! Horatio! You're not supposed to have seen that!" Something like fright, and most definitely embarrassment played up the color in her face from her hairline to below the scooped neckline of her blouse. Grabbing the pad, she held it protectively close to her ample chest, turning away to lean into the counter, her head lowered.

Bowing his own head contritely, he whispered, "I'm sorry. That was an invasion of your privacy. I had no right."

Several seconds paced around the clock before he heard her heavy sigh. "Well, I guess turnabout is fair play. I mean, I've pretty much gotten a full view of a few of your secrets, haven't I?" She looked up over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised, a smirk on her lips.

Relieved, intrigued, Horatio cocked his head to one side. "Is that picture, perhaps, wishful thinking on your part? Is the woman I'm with, you?" He didn't think it was possible for anyone to turn that deeply red and not bleed out of their pores. "Hey, its okay. I have to confess, my mind has been there, a couple of times." One hand pushing the pad down, the other drawing her towards him, he pulled her into a warm embrace and kissed her. From the way her arms gripped at his back, he knew their coffee was going to get cold.

A few minutes later in the darkened bedroom, pulling her shirt over her head, she murmured, "So much for artistic detachment."

Helping her with the front clasp bra, his hands swept in to rescue the two released victims, gently caressing and comforting them. "Does this mean no more posing?"

Her hands found his increasing manhood. "Not on your life! Just means an opportunity for more realistic detail."

And since detail was of special interest to Horatio, he decided to see how many of hers he could inventory to catch up with the one she'd obviously taken of him. Although, his inventory wasn't so much of the physical parts of her, but of what made her sigh, what made her gasp, what made her back arch in ecstasy, her legs open in welcome.

An hour later, Horatio didn't let the realization that he was in the very pose depicted in the sketch distract him one bit.


	10. Eva

Anticipation; that's what he was experiencing! It had been pervasively part of his whole being most of the day but he hadn't been able to put his finger on it until just now. As the elevator doors opened, and he automatically started fumbling at his keys with the one free hand, hampered by the weight of the bags in his arms, he laughed a private little 'Heh' at himself over how nice it felt.

Ordinarily not one to whistle a happy tune either, Horatio Caine couldn't help it as he unlocked the door, shoved it open with his shoulder and swung it shut with his foot. Hm, good, the place didn't smell. Sometimes he worried that, living alone, seldom having time or inclination to houseclean, his place might have acquired an odor he was ordinarily unaware of. 'Hmph, fine time to think of that,' a small voice warned. Considering he'd never had any complaints in the past, he passingly wondered why he even thought of it now. Does this one mean more? Or is it that she, being a higher caliber, that is, intelligence and independence to spare, is more likely to pass judgement than many of his previous guests? 'Hmm.'

He removed the marked styrofoam boxes from the bags and placed them in his refrigerator, reading the directions on each to make sure he had some idea of what was to be nuked when and for how long, stacking in order of cooking times, salads on top, since they would be served first. Wishing another silent thank you to Chef Antony, from one of Miami's newest restaurants, "M," not only for assembling the meal to go, but for clear, concise directions on preparations, he pulled out the bottle of wine that had been sent as the perfect accompaniment and put it on the counter.

Disposing of the bags, he checked the time. For once, he'd been able to get out of the lab early and saw he had time plenty of time to enjoy making preparations. Pulling out the green damask table cloth, he threw it over the small table he'd already set up the night before, in the 'dining area' just outside the kitchen, spending some time checking to see it hung evenly. He next searched slightly deeper into the cupboard for the deep blue linen napkins, which complimented the forest green perfectly, and tossed them onto the table. He got out flatware with the gold, quietly simple design, dishes, gold rimmed wine glasses, smaller goblets for water, candles, holders, putting them on the table so he could spend the time before she arrived, setting the stage just so.

Taking another look at the dishes he paused, picking up one of the plates. The early evening light from outside, coming through the east facing, glass wall, hitting the warm, skin color of the dishes, brought up the memory of how she'd looked in a candle's glow. He remembered because, at the time, the position his hip against hers had brought a comparison to mind of the differences in skin shades. Strange thought, considering he was having sex with her at the time, then but that's what had happened. He and she were both on their sides, he was behind her, up on his elbow, looking down at their two bodies, and immensely enjoying the view. He remembered being very much physically aware of what he was doing and yet separated from it all, seeing his pale pink hip against her warmer pink one, fascinated by the delightful way awoman's flesh could bounce. Now the odd part to the memory was, there was nothing muchleft of the physical sensation and a perfect picture of the visual--holding her, her responses to his caresses--but he had no idea what her breast had felt like in his hand, and no memory of that final culmination. Today the only thing left was just recollection of the color of her skin, as compared to his, and that enchanting sight of the jiggling quivers as his solid hip repeatedly collided with her soft one.

The clinical side of his mind tagged the thought for later examination. Any clue to the workings of the human mind might be useful on the job someday. He set the dish down, checked the table again, and went into the bedroom.

As a final touch to his grooming for the evening, he chose the cologne she had declared had attracted her to him in the first place. Not his most expensive, but a Lanvin he occasionally wore at work. He'd worn itwhen he'd taken her out on a casual afternoon date a few weeks ago. Helping her on with a wrap, she had turned and looked at him sharply, a quizzical smile on her face, and inquired as to the name of his aftershave. Telling her the name, she asked if he'd mind her taking a closer sniff; he'd expected her to lean in and breathe but instead, she'd practically leaped on him,buried her nose completely into his neck, and inhaled deeply, letting out a cosmically ecstatic sigh as she stood back. She had first detected it in the hospital, she'd said, while reporting to him on the condition of a suspect who had been shot, and had been so enthralled by the scent, she knew she wanted to get to know him better. "I don't know what it is about that stuff," she'd confessed, "but I just think it's wonderful." Asking if she could sample it again he happily obliged, savoring a variety of sensual sensations, as she hugged herself close to him, indulging herself. If not for the fact that it was only their second date, he might have suggested they stay in for the day and seen where this could have gone.

Patting the scent onto his neck and chest, his hand wandered further down. He'd discovered, on his last date with her, that she was very free with her enjoyment of the human body and he wondered if she would similarly appreciate the scent applied to a place other than his neck. At the thought of her nose being down there, a part of his nether region stirred slightly. 'Down boy, it might not even come to that tonight, you know. It's just a dinner.' 'Yes, but she might not be too tired after all. A touch couldn't hurt.' Almost on it's own, his hand, damp with cologne, swiped lightly across his pubic hairs causing a deeper rumble. 'Maybe, maybe not, just not now! Quit.' He finished dressing and combed hishair.

Wearing light gray, coarse linen slacks, wine colored loafers, and a light blue-green polo shirt which, he knew complimented his ocean colored eyes, he went out to finish setting the table. Turning on the overhead spot to bright so he could see, he carefully set the stage for dinner withhis lady.

Last night, on the phone, she'd said, "Dinner at your place sounds great! I never eat what they serve on the planes and I'll be just too tired to make anything myself when I get there." No, she didn't want him to try to pick her up at the airport, no not at her place either since she lived just five minutes down the beach from his place. She'd enjoy the walk and she'd call just before she started out.

Being a thoracic surgeon, she said, gave her certain license to be slightly eccentric and hers was shown in her hatred of the cell lifestyle,as she'd called it. The idea that she might call when her plane took off, when it landed, when she was leaving the airport, and when she arrived home, to her, was repugnantly absurd. She was telling him now what the plans were and was going to give him warning as to her arrival only as a courtesy, only so he could do whatever last second preparation the food might require, but communicate beyond that? No. Sorry, she couldn't do that and she hoped he understood.

He understood that most professions drove most people to a variety of madnesses, that the more skilled and demanding the profession the more peculiar the madness, some more difficult to take than others, so her avoidance of the use of a modern convenience didn't worry him.

Finishing with arranging the table, getting the lighter ready for the candles, he turned on the CD player, volume low, with a full range of old time to modern cool jazz, dimmed the light over the table, turned on a few lights in the kitchen, for convenience but not enough to interfere with the atmosphere of the dining area, and sat down at the table to relax and to admire his work.

Her conference, she'd said, had gone well so far, but her second lecture was scheduled for next to last so there was no getting around staying. She'd predicted she'd be flying out of O'Hare by mid afternoon and arriving in time to enjoy the dinner he'd offered, and thank you very much.

They never had much time with each other because his work in the crime lab and hers at the hospital, were equally time consuming and erratic causing constant havoc with their plans. Their first two dates had been aborteddue toemergency surgery; she was on duty in theEmergency Room on weekends, and between gang activities and tourist mishaps had even beenbeeped twicewhile calling itoff thefirst time. The third date ended early because he got a call out. The time they did spend together had certainly been good though. She was beautiful, intelligent, had a marvelous sense of humor, was innocently affectionate, as she'd shown in her cologne smelling trick, and, as he'd discovered just last week, sweetly, satisfyingly sexy. He thought there might be a real connection to be made with her and looked forward to exploring the possibilities.

Only when he looked up to check the clock did he notice it was now so dark he had to go turn on the desk lamp to see the clock. Surprised it was half an hour after the time she should have called he wondered if he should call her, then thought better of it. He wentout onto his balcony and peered over the railing to the beach walk below. Under the lights, the pedestrian beach avenue was busy with people, but there was no lone woman headed his way. Excuses such as, 'her plane was probably late,' or 'maybe she decided to take a nap,' ran through his mind. 'Call!' 'No! She hates calls. She gets enough of the phone at work.' 'Call!' Damn! What might have happened?

Whether he jumped in relief or surprise, at sound of the phone going off, is hard to say. "Eva!" "No, just sitting around. You coming over?" "Ah, I see." "Yeah. Well, no, it's hard. I–I sure." "No, no problem. I understand." "Later then."

She was still in Chicago, flight was delayed, forgotten the time difference, forgot to call, hoped he wasn't angry. He heard music and loud conversation in the background. She had surgery in the morning, would call another time.

Taking a salad from the refrigerator out onto the patio his gaze turned pensively to the table inside, set just so, perfectly lit.


	11. Sanne

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

Sanne

Horatio came to with a start, but a glance around the dimly lit surroundings brought some recollection and a smile to his face. Feeling relaxed, comfortable, and, at the same time, elated, he knew that in a few minutes, he'd feel invigorated with renewed energy. Lazily he wondered how long he'd been out this time. When not in crying need of sleep, he usually dozed for no more than twenty minutes, at most, if he fell asleep at all. He always tried not to, and was often successful, but there were some times that there was no helping it. Damn the male physiology!

Then the thought occurred to him, '_Am I in the doghouse, now?_' First time sex was always dicey and falling asleep afterwards was usually not the best way to make a good impression. Rolling his head first to one side and finding the edge of the bed, and then to the other, he found his partner, asleep. A few strands of the long, brown hair that lay over her face stirred against her even breathing. Okay, but had she fallen asleep from sex or out of frustration, as women sometimes did? Had she been angry about this sleeping lump, next to her? He hoped not.

As his mind slowly resumed operation, looking at her brought a flood of memories of the previous two hours. The kissing, the touching, the rolling were foremost. Sensations came next; how her breast felt in his palm, the yielding skin against his fingers, the silken firmness of the nipples. The feel of her lips against his surrounding ones, devoured, and devouring. How her tongue had felt lapping against his, seeking, probing. The sweet taste of her mouth, the slightly bitter perfume tang of her skin, and musky taste of those regions further south. And, lordy, what her hands had done to him, arousing an animal need that demanded release! And the intensity of her willful need! That was the rolling; the two of them feasting on each other as if in a timed competition for who would consume the other first. He'd had no idea she was capable of such energy.

Slowly moving onto his side, he propped his head on his hand to gaze at the sleeping Sanne. A slave to his profession, always the logician, he turned to the question of what he'd thought would happen their first time together? The Miami CSI lieutenant huffed quietly to himself; with as little personal time as he'd had with her, how could he have divined that the quiet, seemingly shy woman was a sexual power-piston? Not that he was complaining, not by any means; still, the idea that he'd had no inkling, after six months of seeing her was disconcerting.

Even when meeting over the dead body at the drug store, she had been calm.

"You know the witness, Alexx?" The medical examiner, last to arrive on the scene was usually unconcerned with who saw what. She'd arrived while he'd been in front of the store, so when he'd gone back to check on her about her findings, her comment had surprised him.

"Yes, I come here all the time to get prescriptions filled. Sanne, honey, come tell Horatio what you saw."

An overhead light had failed and created deep shadows among the store shelves and out of those, a shade stirred, turning into a woman whose icy pastel-blue eyes were luxuriously ringed in dark lashes. She'd been standing there all along but he hadn't noticed. Rising up, Horatio introduced himself and began questioning the pharmacist who had witnessed the entire crime.

There were two men with guns; one, she'd said, had thrust out his sack, shrilly demanding she fill it with everything she had 'back there'. The other seemed to think the first was going to get it all and started shouting, "no fair", and waving his gun. Ignoring the threat, the first kept insisting he receive 'all of the drugs', whereupon the second gunman shot him. Apparently panicking, gunman number two ran from the store.

Completely composed, Sanne described the entire event as if she were recalling the plot of a story she'd just read and Horatio briefly wondered if she was on one of her own products, a tranquilizer, perhaps. Since she wasn't lethargic and seemed aware of everything going on around her, he dismissed the notion.

Over the course of the next couple of days, returning for further questions, re-examining the crime scene he found he looked forward to talking with her and finally recognized his attraction to her. Fortunately, a week later, the second gunman was caught and confessed, thus erasing any police-witness distance Horatio would have to maintain.

Letting a month pass, for propriety's sake, Horatio finally asked her out. They'd had coffee first, then a dinner and so on. She apparently enjoyed his company as he certainly enjoyed hers. At no time over the next few months, did she give any insinuation that there was more under that pale exterior than that she was intelligent, had an orderly mind that detailed facts quickly and always seemed serenely confident.

Her serenity was perhaps the key to the reason he enjoyed being with her. A few hours with her was better than taking a mini-vacation. Even when they were active, such when they played tennis, he experienced more than just the release of energy. Sure, it was fun, especially to win about half the time, but he also felt wonderfully relaxed when parting from her. This seemed to be the outcome of everything they did.

He'd even teased her about the result she had, telling her she was more effective than some of the drugs she dealt with every day. She'd answered that he'd have to be careful, that not all drugs were what they seemed. Now he knew what she'd meant.

In fact, her tranquility was the reason for this evening's date. He'd had a hell of a week, full of frustrations not only because of undecipherable evidence, but because judges didn't grant warrants and State's Attorneys decided to drop cases for lack of evidence, which he couldn't get to for the lack of warrants. He'd finally called Sanne and literally begged her to take him in, to allow him to spend the evening with her, volunteering to bring take-out from his favorite Cuban restaurant. She'd told him not to bother because she was just about to cook a traditional Dutch meal, hachee, and could easily make enough for him, just to come over when he was ready.

Completely enjoying the tasty stewed beef over rice and a couple of hours of conversation, his ruffled feathers soothed by her relaxing aura, he'd decided he'd better not impose upon her any more. Thanking her, saying goodnight, he kissed her, as usual, and found this time she didn't let go of her grasp around his neck. Instead, she let her face remain close to his, inviting more kisses, which he gladly gave. He always let the lady take the lead, following only as far as she allowed, content with whatever level of intimacy she was comfortable with. Generally, he had some idea of when an escalation in a relationship was going to take place, but this one completely took him by surprise.

Yes, he'd gathered she was attracted to him back when she'd let out a long low wolf whistle at seeing him dressed in white tennis shorts and a multi-hued striped polo shirt. That was the day of their first kiss, too. Two months later, they were still only kissing, briefly, at the end of an evening.

The first kiss this evening was sweet, as always, the second was interesting, and after that, there was no doubt that he wasn't leaving, just yet. He tried to check her face, to make sure he was getting his signals right, but her hand on the back of his head kept pulling him down, so he happily responded.

He wasn't sure just how he'd ended up in bed, naked, playfully wrestling with her for top position; it just seemed to happen. He was aware, though, that this woman wasn't being calm, serene, and certainly was not being still. She was fantastically active. Where she wasn't kissing, licking, or sucking, she was rubbing and probing with delightful purpose. What parts she wasn't using for touching she was thrusting at him, inviting him, no, demanding him to touch her, to caress, to kiss. Eagerly responding to her desires, he'd filled his hands with her, embraced her, cuddled her, explored her.

By the time they had coupled, he was in such a red haze of roaring need, he couldn't remember much after that. Fractional seconds of recall came to him now; the glory of how it first felt to enter her, then feeling her climax, feeling his own blood turning to gold, getting ready to detonate across the universe in a flurry of bright dust. Funny, how he never completely remembered his own climaxes. He remembered the explosion, the release, being poured into the precious vessel of female flesh, expanding into her limitless universe, but nothing more. Then, after a blank time, he slowly became aware, lifted himself up, and dropped beside her; always the same and always different. Occasionally, he'd sometimes fight sleep and sometimes, if he didn't move fast enough to overcome Hypnos, he'd drift off, as he'd just done.

Now, looking at Sanne, he marveled at what had just occurred, at the act of sex and the results. No matter how gently he and the woman started, the final moments were almost always fierce, each desperately trying to pound themselves into the other. Then, in spite of the violence during, there was that complete peace afterwards. To Horatio, it was as if all of his sins had been washed away, that all of his worries were ended, that all was right with the world. Then, the human psyches got into the act, trying to make excuses, each interacting, finding justification for what they'd just done.

Rarely did he waken to a sleeping partner and when he did, he was always uncertain as to what to do. Should he wait for her to waken? Should he wake her? Would she be angry with him for having left her after this incredible joining? He gently moved some of the hair from her face, trying to read the relaxed features.

Sanne's thick lashes fluttered as she started. "Oh, Horatio! I fell asleep on you! How embarrassing. I'm so sorry!"

That feeling of renewed energy flowed in. "No worries, sweetheart." He gathered her into his arms and kissed her.

The End.


End file.
